


And We Know Who We Should Love

by elle_stone



Series: Tumblr Requests [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-29 23:56:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12096225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: Sleeping next to someone is supposed to break your illusions about them. Seeing their silly pajamas and hearing them brush their teeth, waking up the next day to their morning breath and mussed up hair: the whole routine is designed to burn up old fantasies, to bring soaring, irrational daydreams back to Earth. So far sleeping next to Clarke is doing the opposite.





	And We Know Who We Should Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt “It’s only one night, we’ll just share the bed" requested by anonymous on tumblr.
> 
> The title is from "The Reasons" by The Weakerthans: "And the time is never now/And we know who we should love/But we're never certain how."

Clarke's hair smells like oranges.

Bellamy already knew this, though. He knows because they've hugged before: once after graduation, and once after he helped her move into her new apartment, and once after she got back from a month abroad and he picked her up from the airport and she rushed into his arms and almost knocked him off his feet, which he hadn't been expecting, at all. And he knows because a few weeks ago, they went out to dinner with some friends, and he walked her home and she invited him in, and he ended up kissing her against the wall outside her bedroom, in the dim light with her hands grabbing on to the front of his shirt and the sound of intermittent evening traffic coming in through the window. Afterward, after they'd pulled apart and before she let go of his shirt and before either of them managed to look the other in the eye, he buried his nose in her hair and breathed in its light citrus scent. A few strands tickled under his nose. He remembers that moment now better than the kiss itself: how he delayed stepping back for as long as he could, how he knew even then that each extra second of hesitation would burn into his memory.

That was three weeks ago, and they still haven't talked about it.

It's dark now and Clarke's hair is fanned out behind her and around her on the pillow, like fairy tale princess hair—if princesses slept in old worn out NASA shirts that they obviously stole from their roommate and green plaid pants the pattern of Christmas wrapping paper. Still, Bellamy's surprised to see just how picture-perfect Clarke looks in sleep. It’s like someone carefully arranged her into the most precise pose, cute and half-curled up and utterly serene. Sleeping next to someone is supposed to break your illusions about them. Seeing their silly pajamas and hearing them brush their teeth, waking up the next day to their morning breath and mussed up hair: the whole routine is designed to burn up old fantasies, to bring soaring, irrational daydreams back to Earth. So far sleeping next to Clarke is doing the opposite. Her hair shines even in the darkness, fluffy and golden with the gentlest of waves.

He'd been surprised she didn't pull it back in a ponytail or braid to sleep in. Octavia always braids her hair before bed. When she was little, Bellamy would do it for her: their nightly routine through her whole childhood, until she hit high school and said she was too old. One he still misses sometimes, if he's honest.

He's supposed to see O again tomorrow, but only if he makes it through tonight, through these endless hours of insomnia, to the other end of this almost supernatural time loop during which he's stuck thinking the same damned thoughts after the same damned thoughts.

When Clarke volunteered to drive with him upstate and help Octavia move, he'd been, first, surprised, and then honestly and truly grateful. He'd asked her if she was sure at least twelve times. And he'd only stopped when she'd taken him by the shoulders, looked him in the eye, and announced, "Bellamy. You're my friend, Octavia's my friend, and a road trip will be fun. Plus, I want to meet this Lincoln guy. He sounds great."

(Meeting Lincoln is another part of this whole adventure that's keeping Bellamy's stomach in knots and his brain wired and awake even at 1 a.m. He's stuck on the eternal existential question: is any guy, even an allegedly really smart, totally cool, crazy talented, passionate, sweet, teddy-bear-in-human-being-form guy, good enough for his baby sister?)

They were supposed to leave first thing in the morning, and get to O's place before dinner: it would be a little tight, but they’d manage if they just left on time. But then Clarke had a last-minute emergency at home, Bellamy almost forgot the housewarming gift he'd agonized over for weeks (no, a last-minute replacement when they got into town was _not_ an option), and car troubles delayed them even longer, no more than an hour after they'd finally hit the road.

By seven, it was obvious they weren't going to arrive at any decent time. They stopped in at a diner, a leather booths and retro menus sort of place, with an actual jukebox in the corner, and Clarke ordered for them both while Bellamy stepped outside and called his sister to give her their latest ETA. She was, annoyingly, not surprised. “I told you you were nuts to try to drive up here in one day." He could tell by her voice that she knew, without being able to see, exactly what faces he was making at his phone. “Get something to eat and get some sleep. _Don’t_ do any more driving. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

He was definitely going to do some more driving. Another hour, even, and they’d have a great head start on tomorrow. He was planning to tell Clarke as much, but she cut him off as soon he slid back into his seat.

"Look,” she said, poking at one of the giant meatballs on her plate. “I know you want to get as far as possible tonight. But I'm tired, you're tired, it's been a long day. Let's just spend the night here."

"Here in the diner?" Bellamy arched an eyebrow, pretending to be confused. “That’s an… _interesting_ idea.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, gestured toward the window with her fork. "‘Here’ like in the motel next door. I saw a vacancy sign. Do you want some of this garlic bread?"

The garlic bread was crispy just one shade shy of burnt, and the taste stayed with him long after they settled the bill, drove down the street, and booked the last room at the motel. He could still discern an echo of it, even, as they carried their bags inside, and it was all he would let himself think about—how much fucking _garlic_ there was on that bread—as they stood staring at the single king-size bed in the center of the room.

Staring it down for several long moments did not, magically, make it transform itself into two beds.

“Well.” Clarke let her bag drop down with a decisive _thump_. “Rock paper scissors for the floor?”

There must have been something more than fatigue and long-building stress in the expression he gave her, something more like unadulterated disbelief, because she grinned and bumped her arm against his arm. “I’m kidding. It’s just one night, we can share the bed.”

Yeah. Just one night. The longest night of his life, probably.

He's just about to turn over onto his other side, because he can't spend any more time staring at the back of Clarke's head and wondering when this old gray fatigue will turn into sleepiness and then oblivion itself, when he hears a voice out of the darkness—“Bellamy, are you awake?”—and he startles.

He hesitates a long moment, uncertain if his mind is playing tricks on him. He's lost all sense of time; maybe he's lost all sense of reality too. But as he waits for his vocal chords to gear themselves up again, Clarke's body starts to move, like a creature rising from the deep, not turning toward him but uncurling, stretching, her arm sliding up under her pillow and her legs straightening out. Sea waves of them under the floral motel comforter. It's a bit like watching a flower blooming. 

"Yeah," he answers, finally. "Can't sleep."

"Mmmm." She curls up again, a tighter ball this time. "I think I drifted off for a bit. What time is it?"

"No idea. Past one." It was one the last time he looked at his phone, but it could be two, or four, or just minutes before dawn, for all he knows.

Clarke hums again and then, with the same slow, careful movements, sea change movements, continent shifting movements, she turns over until she's facing him. As she moved, she looked so much larger than she is, and now, at rest again, she looks so much smaller. She smiles at him faintly. His eyes have adjusted so well to the darkness that it's not hard to make out the expression on her face: sleepy and curious and fond.

Bellamy feels himself curling up, too, mimicking her. 

He really loves this woman. He loves her and he's known it for a long time, without voicing it, without daring to admit it to himself. He loves how sweet she looks, cozy and tired and private, alone and warm under the blankets with him, and he loves that she isn't always sweet. He loves that when they get to O's place, she'll be giving orders within about five seconds, that there is a more than even chance either he or Octavia will get into a fight with her before the day is out, that the fight will be forgotten by the time they're in the new house, surrounded by cardboard boxes and pizza boxes. He loves that Clarke will unpack the coffee maker first, her housewarming gift, and use it to make herself a cup after dinner. He loves that she’ll never apologize, nor ask for an apology. 

He hates that he’s so taken with her that he can’t tell if he’s being clear-eyed or strikingly naïve.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks. The words are pitched low but above a whisper, no one to disturb in the room except themselves. “Octavia?”

Yes. But not just her, so he shrugs. “What woke you up?”

“I don’t know. Weird dream, I think. But I can’t remember it.”

She has one hand under her head, under the pillow, and with the fingers of the other she picks at a random spot on the sheets between them, like she’s trying to pull out a thread. They both watch her fingers.

“I had a dream once,” he tells her, resisting the urge to hold her hand, but letting his lie nearby, just in case, “that I was lost in these tunnels, and when I found my way out, it was through a lake. I came up out of the water, and—I think it was the end of the world.” He hadn’t really thought of it like that, though, at the time. The dream becomes clear only when he puts it into words and speaks them aloud. 

Clarke stares back at him, straight-faced and thoughtful, her eyes shining. He thinks she must be taking this dream, this random scrap of his subconscious, very seriously, until a wide smile blooms inexplicably across her face. “I have no idea what that means,” she admits. The words bubble up in a giggle, barely suppressed, and it is irredeemably adorable.

He’s so distracted by smiling back at her and admitting, “Neither do I, no idea,” that he barely notices the way her fingers have crept across the space between them and started to play with his.

And then when he does notice, it’s all he can think about.

"Are you cold?" Clarke asks him, as his thumb starts to run a semi-circle across her skin. He's not sure if seconds have passed, or minutes, or how many.

He flicks his eyes up, wondering if she's joking. Under the blankets, their body heat combines and multiplies, feeds off itself; if anything, he's a little too stuffy and warm, breathing in the recycled air of generation after generation of strangers. But she's watching him, earnest and expectant, so he shrugs, and lies, "A little."

Her eyes glint, and she smiles like this is precisely her scheme. As swiftly as if the revelation were choreographed, Bellamy understands. He drops her hand and opens his arms.

Clarke turns and slides back against him, until she's snuggled close and his arm is around her waist and she's holding his hand again, against the softness of her stomach. Her hair is in his face. It will be annoying soon but right now when he breathes in it is the soft citrus of an orange field that fills his senses and all he wants is to bury his nose against her neck. This is not a friendly embrace. It takes all his strength to keep lying to himself, that he could be this close with any of his other friends.

At first, Clarke shifts a little, rearranges herself, rearranges them, but then her movements become more infrequent, until they are both all but still in the quiet middle of the night.

A car passes outside on the main road: the swish of tires on pavement, a passing beam of light sliding in around the edges of the curtains.

Bellamy still feels far from sleep, too attuned to every moment and too intent on memorizing this feeling, so he can play it back to himself later, and wonder at it, but he figures that Clarke has drifted off again by now. Still he's not surprised, this time, to hear her voice lilting softly up to him again: "I'm sorry I never...said anything about it...that time at my place."

Rarely has he heard her sound either so apologetic, or so confused. Like she can't find the words; like, if he could see her face, she might be blushing. But he doesn't ask for clarification, because of course he knows exactly what she means. He's been playing the kiss over again too. The in and out of her lungs as he holds her close reminds him of the way her chest heaved against his after they broke apart, drawing in deep breaths of air. The soft riot of her hair in his face brings back the sensation of pushing a few strands behind her ear, a gesture to fill the pause before speaking, and because he so wanted to see her face and her eyes and her kiss-red lips.

"I didn't bring it up either," he answers. 

"I just don't want you to think it's..." She takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He feels it; he hears it. "I didn't regret it. I just didn't...know what it meant."

What it _meant_. Hearing the words aloud snaps a clear, ringing realization into place, and he can’t help but laugh. It’s suddenly funny, how relentlessly they have both overthought such a simple thing.

“I think it meant we both wanted to kiss each other,” he says.

She doesn't answer right away, and he can't see her face to know if she feels this too, this sudden lifting of uncertainty, this easy fearlessness. He can feel her shifting in his arms, though, turning slowly to look back at him. When she does, his breath catches and the smile fades slowly from his face.

"I still want to kiss you," she says. Her voice is a whisper this time, and her nose is so close to his nose, they're almost touching.

He doesn’t let himself think.

He just leans in, until his lips slide gently over her lips.

Clarke's fingertips settle gently against his cheek, holding him steady, touching him as carefully as if he were glass. He wraps his arms around her—less gently. He holds her close like he never wants to let go. They kick the blanket almost down to their feet and he presses her back against the pillows and somewhere in another room, an air conditioner kicks on, a summer hum forming a background to their own uneven, desperate breaths.

Frantic kisses and intimacy in an anonymous room: the sort of thing people do and don't ever mention again, after. But this time won't be another secret they keep hidden underneath their tongues. He's not worried. They break apart sometimes between marathon tongue twisters and Clarke smiles up at him, secret and soft, happy and sure, and he knows there's no reason to be worried.

The next day, they wake up early and get coffee and muffins from the motel breakfast table, throw their bags in the back of the car, and hit the road. Bellamy drives, and Clarke texts Octavia to tell her they're on their way. After she sets aside her phone, she lets her hand rest on his leg, casual and easy, like it's nothing. Like it's an old habit. Already it feels like it is.

They have three hours of driving ahead of them and still so much to discuss, and Bellamy can't wait to say it all.

**Author's Note:**

> I am also on [tumblr](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
